


stage kiss

by somethingdifferent



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Saturday Night Live Fusion, Bisexual Rey (Star Wars), Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hate Sex, Jealousy, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mirror Sex, Not enough foreplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Unsafe Sex, hate sex adjacent, no condoms but she's on birth control, the setting of them being on snl is p unnecessary but idc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: Begging for her attention, and isn’t that just like a man. Just like every open mic asshole she’s ever gone on after in seedy bars, like every boy on the playground who never learned not to tug on the end of a pigtail. Just ignore him, Rose used to tell her, for every unasked for remark during pitch meetings, every snide comment about the mere fact of her existence on stage with him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.Yet here she is: giving him the satisfaction.rey/ben; saturday night live au
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 33
Kudos: 461





	stage kiss

**Author's Note:**

> HA I DID IT a pwp at 5k words hohohohohoho
> 
> thank you [FRAK](https://twitter.com/AllFrak) for taking a look at this!!!!! incomparable and my favorite

She’s always a little bit on edge right after a show. Rey chalks it up to adrenaline, a post-performance rush. The jittery, intoxicating, heady pleasure of pulling something off.

Rey has been on-stage since she was fourteen, since she first auditioned for her high school’s production of _The Music Man_ —because she needed an excuse to be out of the house for a few hours every afternoon and doing theater seemed the quickest, cheapest way to do it—and the feeling still hasn’t gone away.

And it won’t, as long as she’s in the cast. As long as she’s in front of an audience, from the moment the lights go up and she hears the sound of a voice, her own or someone else’s, announce _Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!_

Rey loves that feeling.

She hates it, too, almost in equal measure.

It’s what makes the post-show ritual so important. It’s why it’s essential that Rey is alone for it. Phasma, who shares the other half of the dressing room, knows this, and she has no trouble making herself scarce the moment the show ends.

Not that this matters to Ben Solo.

Not that anything matters to him.

He barges through the door of her dressing room without preamble, without a knock, all corded muscle and startlingly soft-eyed fury and hulking menace. It’s not the first time he’s interrupted her here, and Rey is sure it won’t be the last.

She scrubs at her eyes, still caked with layers of mascara, with a cotton round soaked in makeup remover, and does fuck-all to acknowledge him, diligently avoiding looking at his reflection in the mirror.

It doesn’t do anything to dissuade him from stepping inside the room. Rey is positive that in the thirty-three years Benjamin Organa-Solo has been on this piece of shit called Earth, he has never once been swayed by anyone’s needs but his own.

His voice is low, a quiet, flinty thing. “You stepped on my cue.”

She knows exactly what he’s referring to—the last sketch of the night, where she’d played a human woman getting married to a jingoistic mermaid ( _topical!_ Poe explained when pitching the idea) played by this week’s host, some youngish actress named Kaydel Ko Connix Rey has never seen in anything but who, if the way Twitter has been blowing up is anything to go by, is a Very Big Deal. Ben was in the skit for less than thirty seconds, as an elderly lighthouse keeper. He carried an oar, his sole prop, and had all of two lines.

They were in four of the same sketches tonight, amounting to about fifteen minutes of screen time each. Maybe seventeen for her, thirteen for him. Not that she’s keeping track—even if there does seem to be a trend that’s leaning in her favor. Rey was pitch-perfect in every single one; even Amilyn and Beautiful Woman Movie Star made it a point to congratulate her on a job well done.

Of course Ben has to zero in the one moment she slipped.

Rey doesn’t so much as blink. She circles the perimeter of her face, watching with meager satisfaction as her foundation melts away, leaving only her own freckled skin underneath. “Your timing was off,” she volleys back lightly.

There is a click, a gentle _shick_ of the door closing behind him.

Ben stalks closer, until she is forced to look up, meet his gaze in the mirror.

“No. It. Wasn’t.” He grinds out each word like the taste of it is bitter.

Rey throws the cotton round in the little blue trash can under her vanity and gets out of her chair, standing up to face him.

His eyebrows tilt dangerously, lips pressing tight together. 

It’s kind of funny, the thought strikes her, that with his dark hair, slicked behind his ears and damp with sweat, and black leather jacket, he looks a little like a greaser. He wouldn’t be out of place smoking cigarettes behind the bleachers, or trying to seduce virginal Aussies with dance.

Rey folds her arms across her chest and sneers.

“Even if you were right—which you aren’t, by the way—what, pray tell, would you like for me to do about it?”

Ben stares at her, his eyebrows furrowed together so intensely it’s almost funny. He always looks like he’s doing a bit when he gets into a mood; actually, sometimes he is, and it can be nearly impossible to tell the difference between the joke and the real thing.

He never jokes with her though. That’s how Rey knows it’s real.

“I don’t want you to do anything about it. I just want you to be aware.”

An acerbic smile pulls her lips back from her teeth. “Thank you ever so much,” Rey drawls, fake-simpering the way she knows he hates. “Now, if you’ll get out of my dressing room, I told our effervescent host I’d tell her about which Thai places should be avoided in Manhattan, Brooklyn, _and_ Queens, so—”

She waves her hands in a shooing gesture toward the door.

Ben doesn’t move away an inch. If anything, he seems to sidle a little bit closer.

“You know she was hitting on you, right?”

“What?” She frowns, tugging her purse onto her shoulder, the one Rose had to spend three weeks convincing her to splurge on. “Who’s hitting on me? What does that matter to you?” Rey asks each question in lightning-quick succession, her pitch rising in volume with each additional word.

Ben just stands there, glaring.

“Kaydel.” He spits out the name with so much venom that it makes it seem like the other woman has done some egregious wrong to Ben, like cut him off in traffic or fuck his mother. Neither of which Kaydel has done, as far as Rey is aware, considering she and Ben are acquaintances of less than a week. “She wants to sleep with you.”

Rey’s chest feels tight, a strange heat flooding through it. She scoffs. “How, exactly, is that any of your business? You and I are not friends.”

He shrugs, as falsely casual as he is infuriating. “Just thought you’d want to know why she’s being so nice to you,” he says. Obviously angling for a reply. Fishing.

This is what comedy people do. They fish.

And Ben catches her. Hook, line, the rest of the phrase. The whole enchilada.

Rey bristles, hackles rising, knowing all the while what he’s doing, that he is trying to get to her, and she is _letting_ him. “Oh, so people are only nice to me if they want to sleep with me,” she grinds out, “is that right?”

Ben shoves one hand in his jeans pocket; the other in front of her face, index finger rigid and accusing. “You’re twisting my words—”

“No, I think I understand perfectly.”

It’s his turn to scoff. “Believe whatever you want,” he throws out. “I don’t really care. But you let it affect your job—”

“I didn’t step on your line,” she protests hotly. “And I don’t know why you’re keeping me here, or why you think me being interested in Kaydel would prevent me from doing my god damn—wait.”

Ben’s eyes widen as Rey stops, like he knows, like he suddenly realizes at the same time that she puts together—

“Is that why you kept me so long after the show a month ago?” Her voice is incredulous, almost a laugh. Because how ludicrous. How _insane_. “When Snap Wexley hosted?”

For someone who makes a living pretending to have emotions he’s not having, Ben has an appalling lack of a poker face. “No,” he sputters, “no, not at all, that’s not—”

“It is,” she marvels. Part of her is absolutely enraged, livid at his soap-opera-dastardly plot; another part of her, a part she buries deep, never to be seen again, practically sings with satisfaction. She’s not going to unpack why.

“You think he wanted to fuck me,” she says. 

Ben wastes about ten seconds of gratuitous emoting to feign offense at her accusation.

Then:

“He _did_ want to fuck you.”

Ben drops all pretense.

“He _did_ ,” he says again, his voice dipping deep and scraping rough, “you should have seen the way he was following you around.” His full lips curl in derision, and Rey wracks her brain, trying to remember that week, to see if there is any basis in what Ben is saying. Maybe Snap flirted with her. Maybe. But it’s not like she reciprocated, it’s not like she—

“Like a little _puppy dog_ ,” Ben goes on, “drooling over you, laughing at all your jokes—”

“Did you ever consider that he laughed at my jokes because I’m funny?”

A sharp bark of laughter expels from his throat. “Don’t be so fucking naive, Niima.”

His eyebrows furrow together, teeth bared in obvious anger, disgust, and Rey doesn’t have any fucking time for it.

Why would she give a shit what he thinks?

“Wow.” Rey huffs out an incredulous breath, shaking her head at the floor before turning her eyes on him. Fixed steadily on his dark gaze, eyes rimmed with thick, black lashes that almost skim the tops of his cheeks. “Fuck you, Ben,” she grits out. “I’m leaving.”

She doesn’t though. She doesn’t even move.

If Ben notices that her promise doesn’t match her execution, he doesn’t seem to process it. His anger—and what right does he have to be angry, he doesn’t know her, he doesn’t even like her—isn’t quelled at all.

In fact, it only seems to increase, the way his whole body seems to grow in size, the space he occupies in the dressing room expanding by the second.

“What? Eager to go see your girlfriend?”

“And if I was?” Rey snaps, patience finally stretched past its limits. “What is your problem with that?”

Ben snorts. “I don’t have a problem.”

“That is exactly what someone with a big fucking problem would say.”

“It’s also what someone without a problem would say,” he counters snidely.

Insufferable. Invasive. Nosy for shit that’s none of his fucking business. Rey _hates_ him; she has since the moment she saw his name announced for the show, two years before she joined the cast. Legacy child of the stars of SNL past, all deadpan delivery and miscalculated line drops and biting humor that no one even likes, too pointed, too specific. She could always tell, even just watching on the couch—dreaming of her next audition, her next open-mic where she might be discovered—when Benjamin Organa-Solo wrote a sketch.

They were always the best ones, after all.

Rey clenches her jaw until it hurts, ignoring the erratic, fluttery thing that’s taken residence in her stomach. 

Barely a foot away, Ben looms.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says. “You’re a caricature of a person. And—I’m leaving,” she adds this as a little afterthought, irritated when she again does nothing to bring that particular goal to fruition.

Ben notices it, too. Putting that Harvard degree to use for once. “You already said that,” he points out, unnecessarily. 

Her hands fly up, a smile that’s more of a grimace pasted over her face. “Great!” she exclaims. “Here’s something else I’ve already said: fuck. You.”

“Ah, there’s that rapier wit that drives ‘em wild.”

“It does, actually,” she bites out, and he edges just a bit closer, voice mocking as he spits back, “I have no doubt.”

It takes Rey a long moment to realize how close they’ve gotten, their faces mere inches away. She should move away.

She doesn’t.

She laughs, or at least gives a bad imitation of doing so. Whatever. Impressions were never her forte. “At least when I get laid it’s not just because of who my parents are.”

His expression twists with barely contained fury, and something inside Rey thrills, too damn pleased to have struck a nerve, ignoring the fact that it was a gimme. Ben has no qualms about fighting dirty, anyway. He’s qualm-less.

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately, “because your parents are fucking nobody.”

It seems to take him a good three seconds to realize what he said. Rey watches it happen: his face falling, shoulders slumping just the slightest bit. Maybe with shame. Can’t be easy, going through life with a temper that makes you such a fucking asshole, after all. She could almost feel bad for the guy.

But she never would. Just like she’d never let him see how much his stupid comment gets to her.

“Punching down, Solo?” She tuts, frowning like a disappointed schoolmarm, balling up her fists in the crooks of her elbows, nailing digging deep into her skin so she won’t do something lawsuit-worthy like sock him in the face. “Bad form, all around. I thought they covered that in Etiquette of Target-Hitting at the Nepotism Academy for Joke-Making.”

Ben looks at her. And looks. And looks some more. His jaw works like he’s chewing gum. Something rolls through her stomach like an actively derailing train. 

“Not bad,” he finally says, voice dipping low. There’s something about his manner of speech now: it’s tighter, more controlled. He’s managed to reign in whatever brought him barreling into her dressing room. That, though, begs the question of why he hasn’t left. “A bit wordy, though. I can workshop it with you if you want.”

If he’s not playing fair, Rey decides, neither will she. Hair-pulling allowed, and all that. No tapping out. “And you wonder why I think it’s just your last name that gets you laid.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “I don’t get laid because of my last name.”

A snort, as honest as it is unattractive, escapes her. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

He might be closer than before; fuck if she can tell. Doesn’t matter. Rey does her best work under pressure. Thank god for community theater improv classes (a sentence no one has ever thought before, she’s absolutely positive). The words drip out of her mouth like battery acid, leeching. “Because you’ve got a shit sense of timing I’m absolutely positive extends to your fumbling performance in the sack, you can’t act your way out of a paper bag even though your literal livelihood depends on it, and you’ve got a face fit for the _before_ picture at a plastic surgery clinic.”

For a moment, Ben doesn’t do a thing. She thinks he might even hold his breath, he’s that still. Something flits across his face, too quick for her to take in.

She thinks he might almost be _impressed_.

Ridiculous.

“Go have fun with your movie star, Rey.” He tosses that out flippantly, the way he would a remark about the weather. “I hear she’s just dreamy.”

“Thanks,” she hisses, “I will.”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.”

Her shoulders quiver. Breath held. For a moment, Rey wonders why she isn’t moving. Why she hasn’t left.

But it doesn’t matter. She thinks she might already know why.

It’s only a question of if he knows it, too.

Rey hears her own voice from a distance, like she’s throwing it. She can, as a party trick; she did during her audition, just as a _fuck it why not_. A _might as well give them all she’s got_.

Ben was sitting in the second row during her audition in the studio, behind Amilyn and some of the producers. He wasn’t the only cast member who came to watch, but he’s the one she remembers most vividly.

It’s hard to forget, really. 

He looked at her like she had already ruined his life.

“Why does it matter to you so much if she asks me out?” she asks, mouth moving, someone else speaking. 

His eyes drop, dipping down her body. Lips, collarbone, tits. Lower. Rey squirms under the attention, torn between telling him off and asking if he likes what he sees, garishly provocative. She does neither.

Ben blinks, slow as a cat. He licks his lips, a quick dart of his tongue on pink flesh. Rey watches, unable to do anything but stare. 

He speaks quietly, every syllable pouring from his mouth as searching and deliberate as the hand he raises between them, hovering around the hair wisping at her temples. Now pulling a strand between his fingers; now tracing a curve down the cut of her jaw, “Why do you think,” he murmurs, and it isn’t a question.

Her lips part. Press together. Part again. Rey can’t look away from him, from the unnervingly intense gaze he levels her with, and she doesn’t know whether or not that’s a good thing just yet. If it’s _can’t look away_ like a beautiful painting, or _can’t look away_ like a desperately awful stand-up set.

Either, or; it doesn’t matter. She’s stuck. Transfixed. Turned to stone, like his stupid perfect shiny hair is really made of snakes.

And maybe that’s why he kisses her. Why he cups her cheek in his wide palm and descends on her, mouth-first, every single inch he closes between their bodies like another accusation. What’s wrong with you. You have plenty of time to stop this. Don’t you want to stop this. Don’t you hate his living guts. Stop it. Stop it now, I mean it this time. 

She hates him. She _hates_ him. Since the moment they met and before.

What’s worse: she kisses him back.

It isn’t the first time she’s kissed Ben Solo. In skits, on stage, in front of an audience of strangers, she’s put her mouth on his mouth just plenty. Dry, sexless, embarrassing, and played for laughs.

He broke, once, while kissing her, and it was only once. His hand, in the original blocking, was supposed to be on her waist, and he misjudged, accidentally grabbing her ass.

“Shit,” he murmured, only in her ear, mindful of the mics. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

And all Rey did was pat him on the cheek and hiss, “Say your fucking line.”

This isn’t like that.

Rey stumbles into him, following the lead of his hand wrapping around her waist, pulling her into him, into his chest. Into his tongue in her mouth, warm and soft and too gentle. She could forgive herself, she thinks, if it were harsh, like a fire scorching both of them, a quick, messy explosion.

This isn’t like that either. 

This feels like he’s committing some kind of crime. Making her an accomplice to what he’s doing to her. What she is letting him do. What she is doing with him.

His hands are huge and hot as they trail up her back, sink into her hair—Rey thinks they’ll leave burn marks—and if he was pulling her before, he’s pushing forward now, step by agonizing step, walking her back into her own dressing table. Sitting her up on the edge so he can _devour_ her. He knocks her purse off her arm, scatters her makeup on the floor. The mirror clattering against her spine. His fingers tightening on her body whenever he can find a grip.

Her arms wrap around the hard shelf of his shoulders, her mouth opening so her tongue can slide against his.

She _participates_. She _yes-ands_.

More than that.

Rey hitches her knees up his side, like she’s planning on climbing the length of his body like a gym-class rope. She rolls her hips against his, moaning when she feels him hard underneath his zipper.

Strong arms lift her up, bend her over. Ben throws her around like she weighs nothing at all, raising her hips and tugging her pants and underwear down her thighs, just enough to expose her to him. Enough for him to feel how wet she already is, sticking to her cotton panties, embarrassingly soaked. Drenched from the moment he walked into the room. Fuck him for that.

He barely even touches her (all the while groaning, “ _fuck_ you, why are you so fucking _wet_ ,” like it’s _her_ fault, like he had nothing to do with it, _asshole_ ) before she hears the overloud swish of his zipper, the clink of his belt buckle. The sound makes her tremble, her palms twitching flat on the surface of the mirror. She doesn’t look into it—just watches the reflection of his hands, monstrously big, as they grasp her waist over her Paul Simon shirt. _Graceland_. His fingers almost meet above her navel, his palms spanning the width of her ribcage. It makes something drop in the pit of her stomach like a big cartoon anvil.

Then—

He’s pushing inside, fucking her with a cock she hasn’t even seen. Worse: doing it _slow_ , careful, inch by aching inch. Stretching her around him until she squeaks. Ben holds her by the nape of her neck like she’s a little mouse he’s toying with. Keeping her under his claws. Letting her think she might still get away, might still turn around and refuse him and leave him there, dick hard and flushed, wet with her. She won’t. She knows she won’t. The time to leave would’ve been before he touched her cunt, before he kissed her. Before he walked through the fucking door.

Begging for her attention, and isn’t that just like a man. Just like every open mic asshole she’s ever gone on after in seedy bars, like every boy on the playground who never learned not to tug on the end of a pigtail. _Just ignore him_ , Rose used to tell her, for every unasked for remark during pitch meetings, every snide comment about the mere fact of her existence on stage with him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Yet here she is: giving him the satisfaction. 

And fuck him for that, too.

Ben adjusts his grip, huffing as he notches himself deeper. Takes one inch, another. Until their bodies are flush together, her ass pressed against his pelvis, belt digging into her upper thighs.

His nose skims the side of her throat, mouth open and sloppy-wet on the nape of her neck. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stands, gasping and panting like a fish, with his cock buried inside her, splitting her oh-so-casually in two.

Rey’s fingers curl, nails scratching the glass in front of her face. “What are you waiting for?” she snarls, feral as an animal. “A god damn cue card?”

His first thrust knocks the wind out of her. Like a punishment, a _this is what you get_. His mouth on her neck bites down, sucking a bruise. Working to leave a mark: Ben Solo Was Here.

He doesn’t give her any chance to recover, not a word of warning before he fucks into her again, harder than before. He sets a pace that has her scrambling, whimpering and trembling all over his cock. Rey registers, distantly (very, very distantly) how humiliating and horrible she must sound, wailing like a porn star at the way he fills her up, balls slapping her clit, her pussy making a noise like water every time he rocks inside. 

“There. Is that better?” His voice is guttural, a raw, ragged tatter of a thing. His hands drag over her stomach, sliding her shirt up her skin. He groans loudly, so fucking loudly, when his palms find her tits bare. “Is this what you wanted? Look.”

A hand tugs on the base of her ponytail, jerking her head back. Making her look at her own face, red and wet, lips swollen and a bruise beginning to darken on her neck. And behind her, Ben. His body driving into hers, deep and deliberate and merciless, his palm fitted to the back of her skull. 

He says, “Look at me, Rey.” He says, “This is what you wanted.” His gaze is fixed on her, dark and more than a little wild. Swallowing her up. Like he wants nothing more than to keep her, soft and needy, on his cock. Forever, maybe. “Say it. This is what you wanted.”

Rey nods, frantic, afraid her voice might catch on a sob if she opens her throat. Mortified when it actually does, a wet, helpless sound when he pulls out completely, “Ben, please, I need—” but all he does is bend down, ripping her jeans the rest of the way off her legs. Too impatient even for that, it turns out: he leaves them hooked on her left ankle, denim bunched up around her foot. He shoves her back up on the table, facing him this time, bare below the waist and body all open and warm and soaked for him.

He slips back inside with an ease that makes her keen, one hand pressing on the small of her back, arching her body how he wants. His hips roll into hers, slower this time but no less rough, every thrust punching some spot that makes her cry out, shake like a damn leaf in the damn wind. He’s making it last, she can tell. Has nowhere else he’d rather be.

Something inside is building, something she knows will swallow her whole. Every stroke reaching up, tugging at the hot, melted core of her like the end of a string.

“Who’s fucking you right now?”

His voice is sudden, clipped and almost angry, in her ear. She can’t see his face, his forehead bumping into the mirror with every forceful shove.

She inhales, sharp, eyelashes fluttering. “You are,” she manages, hiccupy and high-pitched like her voice never is, “you are—”

“Say it,” he snarls, pumping deeper and deeper, making her take every single inch, more and more and more. “Tell me who’s fucking you.”

“Ben.” Her eyes squeeze shut, hands flying for purchase somewhere on him, unwilling to let go, holding on to the anchor of his back. “You are, Ben, you’re—you’re fucking me.”

His fingers slip down her body, over her tits, stomach, down to where they’re joined. Rey gasps, quiet, involuntary, when he touches her there.

“No one else. No one else gets to fuck you like this. This cunt is mine. Say it.”

“No one else, just you.” She gasps again, clenching around him and voice pitching into a squeal. “No one else, Ben, just—just—”

It becomes a chant, a desperate, watery plea as she turns to liquid around him. _No one else just you no one else just you no one else no one else no one—_

It only takes her one awful minute to realize she’s telling the truth.

Rey hides her face in his neck, fingers carding through his soft, thick hair. His lips move against her collarbone. Voice low. Whispering something, almost to himself, like a prayer. 

_Mine, mine, mine_.

She doesn’t even correct him. Not even when he pulls her face to his, _mine_ , or kisses her again, teeth knocking, _mine_. Not even when she spasms around him, cunt pulsing, milking his cock until he comes too, hoarsely laying his claim again as he sighs into her mouth. _Mine_. _Mine_. _Mine_.

It takes her a minute to recover. To realize, sweaty and heavy-limbed, what they just did. Ben is slumped against her; his hair tickles her neck. One of his hands is still hooked in the hinge of her thigh.

“Fuck,” he whispers, just soft enough that she can hardly tell if he meant for her to hear it. “Fuck.”

His hips shift, grinding a little bit deeper before he pulls back, pulls out.

For a moment, neither of them says anything. And isn’t that a first.

Eventually, he has to open his big fucking mouth. 

“Christ,” he mutters. It takes Rey a long moment to realize he’s staring unabashedly at her pussy. It’s puffy and tacky-wet, messy with her come and his. He points between her legs, first at one thigh, and then the other. “I should’ve asked about that first, huh?”

Her knees probably bruise with how fast she puts them back together. “You didn’t knock me up, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her jaw tightens as she bends over, struggling to put back on her pants and tug her shirt down at the same time. _Mistake_ , her brain is screaming, unhelpfully, _you just fucked your asshole coworker. Mistake! Mistake!_ “You think I’d let you fuck me raw if I wasn’t on birth control?”

Ben raises his hands in a parody of surrender. His belt is still unbuckled, but his cock, at least, is tucked back into his pants. Thank god for small mercies. “Okay, fuck. Was just asking.”

Rey straightens up, grateful that at last that her clothes are finally back in a state to preserve her modesty and her dignity (what little of either remains). She glares, ignoring the way she can feel him dripping down the inside of her thigh, pooling in the gusset of her panties. “Get out of my dressing room,” she tells him.

His eyebrows lift, a muscle jumping in his jaw. And fuck him, again, and also, and unto eternity, just for this: she already wants to fuck him again. “So that’s a no on round two, then?”

This time, she raises her arm to provide a visual direction. “ _Out_.”

So Ben goes. Walking all slow, strutting more like, clearly pleased as punch with himself. She could just throttle him.

The handle is turned, the door opens. Just before he leaves, Ben looks back at her.

Tall, and imposing, and hair just as perfect as ever.

If she were more foolish—even more foolish than she is now—she might think the look in his eye was almost fond.

And then, his face cracks into the smuggest grin she’s ever had the misfortune to witness.

He says, “Same time, same place, next week?”

The closest thing she can fit her hand around, it turns out, is the bottle of makeup remover. Rey chucks it at the door just as he closes it behind him.

 _Yeah, right_ , she decides, sitting with shaking legs back in her chair. _Like I’d ever let him fuck me again._

The Rey in the mirror just looks back at her, all red-bitten lips and bird’s nest hair.

 _Like I’d ever let him fuck me_ here _again_ , she amends.

And she is true to her word on that.

The next week, she fucks him in his dressing room.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free 2 follow me on the bird app @janedazey


End file.
